Five years passed. Prince Wenrong and Lady Liuying’s daughter gradually shed her fat snake form, emerging as a chubby toddler with pale silver hair. Little Liuruo had learned to crawl very well as a snake, and as a budding human refused to give up her graceful snake tail for cumbersome legs. Xingxi and Qiping were no longer the only children old enough to watch her; they often passed the duties off to Xingxi’s brother Xingbei, or Xiongmu’s sons.

Lady Liuying had watched the majority of these children grow up, and despite her initial reservations she trusted most of them to watch her daughter. It was a welcome reprieve to leave her motherhood at the door and enjoy some time with her husband.

Prince Wenrong only left Clear Water Mountain once every year; as winter breathed its last breath and the new year loomed, he took on his princely duties and returned to Chang’an to celebrate the new year with the royal family. In the early days Lady Liuying would accompany him, but since Liuruo’s birth she had remained behind to take care of their daughter. Liuying was sure of her abilities in hiding her own true nature, but her daughter was a different matter, and the repercussions of her discovery were too great.

This past year, however, Prince Wenrong had spent more time in Chang’an than at the Qiao Village. After the death of his father, now called the Emperor Taizong, he had to perform the duties of a filial child. As a compromise, he was spending new year’s with his family, having Chen Di handle whatever political fallout would occur. He would be traveling again in the spring, to honor his father in the Qingming, the festival of mourning.

He sat in their parlor with a small heating stove at his feet, carefully examining recent letters a courier had brought from his friend and steward. His brow was furrowed, though his body was not tense.

“You have been reading the same letter for the past hour, my love,” Lady Liuying said, leaning forward and placing her hand over his. “More sorrow from Chang’an?”

Prince Wenrong shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. Just that my mother has written and…there are rumors as to who my brother will make the empress.”

“Someone she knows?” asked Liuying, moving on her knees to sit beside him. Through their years together they had established an unspoken trust, and though she wished to know the contents of his letter she did not read it.

“One of the younger consorts my mother was on friendly terms with, before the girl got sent to a nunnery. Some nonsense between my father and brother.”

“Friendly terms that can be cultivated, I’m sure.”

The prince sighed. “Life has been good here, hasn’t it my dear?”

“You have done much good in Clear Water Mountain.”

“Then why do I feel unhappy,” bemoaned the prince, clutching at his chest. “There is no logic to it, and yet I feel unfulfilled.”

Lady Liuying placed her hand on top of her husband’s. “Perhaps what you’re feeling is ambition, my love.”

He let out a laugh. “I thought myself the type to be content with the minutiae of a small village. I used to despise the work done by my father, how easily the discourse on towns and provinces obfuscated the human lives inside them. But now he is dead and my brother rules. I see a path ahead for myself, but I am loathe to take it.”

“You are no longer the idealistic young man you were when I first met you,” she said. “Do not begrudge your capacity to change.”

“Would the man you know now save a snake he sees in a garden?”

“I do not know. But I have been shaping this man for many years.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. “And this man has been shaping me.”

Li Wenrong leaned into her touch. “I cannot ask you to leave this place. You are happy here.”

“My dear,” she reassured, “your ambitions are mine. I will gladly follow you back to Chang’an and beyond. If you wish to take a ship or a caravan and leave these lands entirely, I will still follow you, and gladly.” She smiled and looked at their hands intertwined. “If it means we are able to greet more new years together, I would happily shed my life here and change with you.”

-

Prince Wenrong met Ao Luming near the lake at sunset.

“I remember when we first arrived here,” the human prince reminisced. “You transformed into a dragon and leapt into the lake. It nearly scared Chen Di to death.”

“This has always been my lake,” Luming said. “My piece of water, gifted from my lord father, his own river just an offshoot of the Eastern Sea. I had always thought it pitifully small, but then so was I.”

“Many good memories have been made on its shores.”

“Truly, the narrowest creeks flow the furthest.”

“Perhaps,” Wenrong said, then laughed abruptly. “It’s so strange to talk of princehood with someone who is not my brother.”

Ao Luming turned to his human companion and smiled. “I do not know much about human princes. Before creating this village and living amongst you, it seemed like your dynasties rose and fell like tides or seasons.”

“Perhaps they do,” Wenrong mused. Then, after a pause, “My father is dead and my brother is emperor. May you not strike me down for what I say next, but I feel the grief of losing my emperor but not the grief of losing my father.”

“There was no hope of succession in my family,” Luming said. “My father made his name as a brilliant swordsman, but even then he is not the most martially adept of my lord grandfather’s sons. I myself am terrible with the blade.”

“And yet you were given a position in Heaven.”

“After many centuries of cultivation. And even then, it is a paltry station, being little more than furniture. The honor of gracing the Jade Emperor’s presence is dulled when you are little more than furniture.”

“So you don’t regret it, then? Leaving Heaven for, well,” Wenrong gestured to Qiao Village, “a settlement along the river?”

“I have never been happier in my life,” the dragon replied.

Prince Wenrong laughed despite himself. “You are a braver man than I am, then.”

“And why is that?”

“I still have my position back in Chang’an. On paper I am this land’s magistrate–it’s human magistrate, in any rate. I can return and call this simply a pastoral diversion. You on the other hand…” He paused before he could finish the sentence.

The dragon prince laughed, a short snort that his partner Tangyou often let out when she heard a passing joke. “Oh you can say it. I am unfilial. Treasonous, even. If we are discovered, the consequences for Tangyou and me would be dire.”

“You can never return home.”

“I’ve never had a home until we built Qiao Village.”

“You truly are our leader,” Prince Wenrong said. “I can never share your convictions.”

“We are far from champions of conformity here.”

“I plan to return to Chang’an,” Wenrong blurted out. “My mother may have some leverage with the new empress.”

“And you intend to pursue mortal politics?” Ao Luming asked without judgment.

“I do. There’s so much I have learned from this village. Ways things can be run better, kinder, more efficiently. Perhaps it’s a burden of my birth but I feel I can give more to the people than I currently have to offer.”

“We will miss you here.”

The human prince stared into his dragon counterpart’s eyes, a deep reflective blue speckled with gold like lapis lazuli, his slit pupil wide as darkness overtook the dimming sun. Notwithstanding the height difference with Luming in his half-dragon form, Li Wenrong felt small compared to this man. Not in terms of divinity, status, or filial piety, but in terms of living. This must be a fraction of what people feel when beholding the enlightened, and suddenly Wenrong understood the reverence Buddhists had for their Buddha. To witness someone break free of the same shackles that they wore on their feet.

“You do not fault me for leaving?”

“Sometimes I need to remind myself that you’re mortal,” Ao Luming said, not answering his question. “You have such little time compared to the rest of us. Such a fragile, momentary existence; of course you must make the most of it.”

Prince Wenrong let out a sigh of relief and calmed his hands, which had been fidgeting with the cords of his sash as he waited for the dragon’s answer. Before Wenrong could give Luming a reply, however, the human prince’s stomach growled like a beast, loud enough to spook a flock of ducks that had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“You should probably go eat,” Ao Luming said. “Must tend to your body, lest it fall sick.”

With a brief thanks and farewell, Prince Wenrong turned to go home to his wife and daughter, only to stop when he heard Ao Luming call out his full name:

“Li Wenrong?”

The prince turned to look back at the man, who in the flickering twilight shifted from a dragon’s head to a human one and back again. The orange sky was reflected in the lake, bisected by mountains like a black scar against an unending sky.

“Your father is dead. Let his soul rest, instead of forcing him to look over your shoulder.”

-

Plans were made for their departure. Wenrong walked Tangyou through the intricacies of his registry, securing multiple promises from the phoenix that his work would be continued in his absence. Missives were sent and horses and mules procured for the journey from Clear Water Mountain to the capitol.

The only issue was little Liuruo. Though she now spent most of her time in her naga form, she was still unable to transform her snake tail into legs. Neither parent was willing to leave their precious child behind, but unless the six-year-old could master her transformations effectively in the next year, no solution could be found.

“I know she will be in good hands here,” Liuying sighed, rolling a black go stone back and forth in her hands. “But still I worry. No parent wants to leave their child behind.”

Bixian studied the board before her: Liuying had clear control over the center right, whereas her own territories were split along the middle. Connecting them was not impossible, but Liuying could easily block her attempt with a few well-positioned pieces. The play now was to feint defensive plays to stop black’s expansion, all the while finding opportunities to slowly connect her two territories. A difficult feint to pull off, especially against an opponent as astute as Liuying.

“Perhaps there is a way of disguising your daughter’s form,” Bixian suggested, the conversation a welcome distraction from her subterfuge. “Surely she wouldn’t be swarmed with servants and nannies all day.”

Liuying hummed as she played her piece, continuing her aggressive attack. “She wouldn’t be surrounded by servants, no, but one must always be vigilant for lurks and spies. She would only need to be discovered once.”

“I’m sure you are more than capable of maintaining a permanent illusion spell,” Bixian offered, chancing a piece towards her attempt at connection. Her opponent did not seem to notice the piece and continued her pattern outward. “But such magic may be traced,” she sighed. “And I doubt Heaven would look kindly upon a demon in the capitol.”

“What if you make it easier for Ruoruo to have legs?” Bixian offered, barely aware of the words leaving her mouth. So focused was she on winning the game, spurred on by the impracticality of the odds.

A stone fell from Liuying’s hand and clattered onto the board. “How would that be possible? She is only a child.” Several pieces were displaced, and she hastily replaced them to their original positions.

“I know of a knife that can separate the animal from the human form. A cut could be made—”

“My daughter is a snake,” Liuying insisted. “I will not have that taken away.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Bixian assured her. “But a partial cut can be made so it is easier for her to access her human form. She would still have a snake tail when she wants to, but she can more easily hide amongst mortals. It would be no different than dying her hair. You are planning to do that, I presume?”

Liuying angrily made her play and then continued staring down at the board. “We do not want unnecessary rumors,” she admitted.

Bixian studied how the game had changed. Her ploy had worked—in her distracted state, Liuying did not notice the crane’s invasion. Triumphantly, she set her piece down at the middle ground between her territories—territories which were now finally connected.

Her opponent glanced up, and the worry she had expressed previously faded from her face and was replaced with a demure smile. “Well played,” Liuying hummed, pouring herself another cup of plum wine.

When it came time to count the territories, however, they discovered it was a tie. While Bixian managed to join her two kingdoms, Liuying had expanded upon her early lead to ensure complete control over her side of the board. The two women looked at each other and laughed, each taking another drink of their shared plum wine.